Early Risers
by VoxBellum
Summary: My submission for FuckYeahRainbowSix's month of Consent. Thermite loves his mornings. He's got a routine. Simple as it is, he has a routine. But, sometimes, it's nice to not abide by your own rules. OC x Thermite pairing.


Welcome!

This is a submission for FuckYeahRainbowSix's month of Operation:Consent. This story contains an OC and smut related content. If you don't like either of those things, then this story is probably not for you.

I hope enjoy!

-Vox 3

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_Early Risers_

Getting up at 5 am is part of Jordan "Thermite" Trace's routine. It was instilled in him when he was a kid on the ranch, drilled into his brain at basic. He can't imagine missing a sunrise, or the working hours just before the crest of dawn, when the yellow brims over the horizon, overthrowing the moon. It's a battle fought every day and every night. The brilliance of the bright incandescent orb of light struggling its way into the night sky. There is something magical about the sunrise, something that brings him back to his childhood when he would sit horseback next to his pa watching the sunrise as they wrangle the cattle. His ma making them hearty breakfast feasts of bacon, scrambled eggs, buttered toast and her famous baked beans, before they headed back to work. On occasion Mrs. Trace would whip up some buckwheat pancakes, drizzled with pecan maple syrup, homemade whipped cream and a generous helping of candied apples and other fruits. Looking back, it's surprising he's still in good health. His mom had m

Jordan takes another gulp of his protein shake. It's not his ideal breakfast, but it beats the kale shots Sloane does every morning. The beet one isn't so bad, but the kale tastes like straight ass.

Despite his best efforts, there never seems to be enough to do in the wee morning hours. He consistently finds himself peering out the French paned windows, listening to the hustle and bustle of the morning commuters. From the window, he can see over the Francis Scott Key Bridge with its peeling green paint. A few early risers like himself are already out, running the length of the bridge and down toward M street.

Bored with the incessant honking of impatient souls on their way to the perpetual grind of their 9 to 5 jobs, he draws the curtains and turns away from the window.

Traveling the few paces towards the maple table his father had made for the couple, he drags one of the chairs out and settles himself down into it. He runs his hand over the surface of the table, memories ebbing their way inside his mind as he reflects on the importance that this table symbolized. His father had never been an affectionate man. Frank Trace was coarse like sandpaper, or a rough leather hide. This table was the closest thing Frank Trace could muster that could be counted as sentimentality. He is a hardworking, dedicated man that Jordan had only ever seen break down twice in his life. Once when Jordan's mother, Wynn, had died and the second when Jordan came back from his first tour of duty. Frank had spent the better part of the agonizingly long twelve months working on this table, when he wasn't tending the ranch. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was petrified. Frank Trace had been so proud when his son walked through that door. The various medals, badges and his epaulets draped over his shoulders. But that wasn't what Frank Trace noticed first. The first thing that Jordan's father had laid his eyes on was his son, nothing more, just his son. Relief swept him up in a tidal wave until he found himself standing inches from his son. He wrapped him in his arms and squeezed, tugging at Jordan's uniform and knotting the fabric in his hands as the older Trace held back a wave of tears. Jordan hadn't expected it. His father had never hugged him before that day. He had never shown emotion, never known how. He's the most stoic man Jordan has ever met, even more stoic than Thermite himself. At least, Jordan came by it naturally. His inability to show emotion stems from his father. Is he proud of it? No. But, it helps him survive. Keeps him sane. Keeps him focused. Keeps all the demons from spilling out.

Yet, over the course of the last year and a half something has changed. With the arrival of Sloane Jackson, the world has opened its arms, spun on its heels, and become a new place. She warms his heart and makes him smile. Something, he hasn't done for quite some time. He knew her way before Rainbow. Fuck, he had been her teacher at the Academy. Back then, she had been a hellion, an intelligent hellion, but a hellion, nonetheless. But she had a knack for finding needles in a haystack, was a hell of a negotiator and interrogator. If you needed something done, someone talked to, Sloane could have them eating out of her hand in no more than two hours.

He wasn't surprised when 'Liza tapped her for S.W.A.T, or when she recommended her for Rainbow.

The shuffling of feet brings him from his reminiscing.

"Mmmhey." Sloane mutters sleep woven into her words as she rubs her eyes.

She blinks a few times clearing her vision as she appears in the doorway. Her oversized FBI shirt unmistakably not belonging to her based on the holes he can tell each story to. The tattered grey fabric hangs loosely over her, cutting off at her mid-thigh. He's not completely sure she's wearing pants, but he doesn't much care. Because the one mortal enemy Sloane has is pants, she hates to wear them to bed, walking around the house. Anywhere its private and completely okay not to wear pants, Sloane will do that, sans-pants. The last perceptible item that Sloane wears is her treasured, ratty, worn out, blue bunny slippers. One of the ears had fallen off a while ago and somehow Sloane had gotten the idea that she could sew it back on. She had in fact done just that, sewn it on…backwards. The white part in the middle of the ear promptly disappeared about halfway up. And it seems that the only available color of thread had been purple, either that or Sloane had gone momentarily color blind. The slippers made a great conversation piece, however. The first time Jordan had spent the night at her place, he had found them in a drawer next to her bed.

"Good Morning." Jordan says back to her, a smile flits across his lips with a certain twinkle in his eyes. A twinkle that if Sloane Jackson had caught, she would have immediately obliged. Even in her current disordered state.

"You're chipper this morning." She grumbles.

"Why wouldn't I be? I get to wake up next to that." He gestures to her, more precisely her bedhead. Her chestnut brown hair disheveled into large clumps, jetting out in various directions.

Sloane purses her lips, narrowing her gaze onto the man until only slits are left of her doe eyes. She rakes a hand through the mess trying to comb the tangles out with her fingers.

"Some of us don't rise at the crack of dawn looking like that." She gestures her hand at him. His greying black hair appearing silky smooth even from this distance. His grey sweatpants emblazoned with dark, peeling FBI lettering brim indecently low, his pelvic bones clearly visible. She waves her hand again fanning away the remark only half ignoring his pants. "I need coffee. Want some?" Her feet are already shuffling towards the counter. Sloane unlike Jordan hates mornings. She's a night owl. But that doesn't mean she can't enjoy a good sunrise when she's up early and lately she's found that she has steadily been getting up earlier and earlier every day. She knows Jordan has something to do with that fact, but she can't quite put the words to describe exactly how he has taken a hold of her normal routine and flipped it on its heels. She dares say she loves him. Yet, she's not sure because every time she tags those ill-fated words on an individual, they seem to vanish without a trace. Something told her Jordan is different. For one, he isn't some guy trying to live a normal life, with a normal job. He's in the same profession as she is. He's putting his life on the line the same way she is. Instead of constantly judging her and her life choices as some way to be a chauvinist. Perhaps, she knows that deep down she knows Jordan is just as screwed up as she is and that's part of what she loves about him. He's loud, proud and fucked up. Everything she needs in her life. She's loud, proud and just as fucked up. But, in different ways and for different reasons that seem to complement each other by way of some unforeseeable force.

In a few strides, Sloane has crossed the threshold into the kitchen and made her way to the Keurig. She fiddles with the machine, presses the startup button, and lets it preheat.

Jordan cocks an eyebrow at her. "Coffee, why not tea?"

"Not a tea day. Coffee?"

"Yeah, sure." Jordan stands moving towards the sink. His gait calm and steady. Words easily associated with the man. Quickly, he sets the remnants of his protein shake into the sink and runs a bit of water into it. Jordan finishes his self-assigned duty and leans against the edge of the black and white marbled counter closest to her, watching her intently. He can't help but feel a pang of lust. Every time he looks at her, he feels the ripple of want to help to pitch his tent. It's killer when he gets a glimpse of her or hears her voice on mission. Somehow, he has managed to quell it when they're working, but when they're at home together, his composure is thrown out the window. That's not to say they're fucking like rabbit's day in and day out. He wants to be close to her, feel her skin on his. It's the simplicity of complacency when he is with her. But, right now, all he can think about is fucking her brains out.

Sloane grips the small, stainless steel pitcher and places it underneath the spout. "Can you grab me two cups, Cowboy?"

Jordan loves when she calls him that.

He reaches up, swings open the cabinet and grips two mugs on pure instinct, mainly because they're the only two mugs they have now. Her favorite and his favorite. Jordan's mug is emblazoned with the emblem of the Dallas Cowboys set on a deep, royal blue. Sloane's is nothing as serious. Her coffee mug is green in color, an animated cactus grimacing out to the world and a speech bubble with the words "Don't be a Prick" scribbled in gold lettering. Jordan sets the mugs down close to Sloane, which presents him the opportunity to slip a few inches closer to her.

Sloane pulls out the small compartment she keeps the tiny ready-to-brew cups in. "We have vanilla, hazelnut and caramel. The classics: Kona, French, and Italian. And something called the _No Surrender_. Any sound appealing?"

"No surrender. Sounds great to me." He leans closer to her and flashes her a cocky grin.

Sloane turns to him, gives him a perfunctory onceover. His cunning smile a dead giveaway to his intentions. Part of her wants to slap him. The other part wants to smile at him. She lets her stone-cold firmness, supersede his intoxicating stare. She knows what he wants and she's not about to cave that easily. He's going to have to work a lot harder if he wants in her pants. Even though, she wants him to take her right then and there. She's not giving any of that away.

The sound of the coffee pot percolating brings her attention back to the task at hand. "Really?" She asks as she turns away from him.

"That was cute, and you know it." He slides behind her resting his hands on her hips, a waft of her coconut shampoo encompassing his senses. Jordan loves the smell, delicate and exotic. Jordan presses his bare chest against her back, running his hands down her hips until they rest on the front of her thighs.

He tugs her backwards so that her ass is flush against his growing erection. "I'm cute and you know it, darlin'." He whispers in her ear, each word rippling out like a pleasing melody to her body. Goosebumps ripple across her spine. She rolls her shoulders trying to shake off the overwhelming lust washing over her.

Sloane can't help but smile. She loves the purr of his voice, of his accent. It's like listening to the waves collide with the shore. It's soothing and serene, comforting, yet powerful. And, when Jordan Trace calls her _darling, _it's as if the whole world is set on fire for the first time, every time. He lowers his head onto her shoulder. Her smile grows into a toothy grin, that she knows she can't hide from him, but tries anyway. She sucks on her back teeth and spins around to look at him.

"I'm not going to get my coffee, am I?"

He shrugs. "You can have your coffee." He leans down slightly to kiss her. Softly he lets their lips touch, but not fully embrace. "And a good ol' fashioned Texas beefcake." He breathes, trying not to laugh.

Sloane has no such resolve, a single, loud, but beautiful laugh explodes out. He's certain that half of the apartment complex heard it. "That right there ruined it, beefcake." She says through a string of low chortles. She spins around to face him. One eyebrow cocked in a questioning, yet coy stare.

"Are you sure, darlin'?" He pulls her close to him again. His arms clasped behind her back so she can't escape. "I'll show you how we used to start our mornings back on the Ranch." He says giving her a momentary eyebrow dance.

She wants to make a joke about fucking the cows. But, decides against it. Sloane's ready for him to disrobe her right here, right now. This isn't the time for jokes about having sex with cows in a field.

Her face lights up. Her smile stretching farther across her face. Jordan Trace has that effect on her. It's hard not to smile, when you have someone who makes you laugh, makes you feel loved, makes you happy.

In one swift deftly performed move, Jordan sweeps her in his arms and hoists her off the ground. Sloane wraps her legs around his torso.

"Beefcake?" She cocks her head at him, letting her smile simmer down. She stretches her arms around his neck.

_God. She loves him._

She wants to say it, but she can't. She's scared. Scared to lose him. Scared to ruin the moment. Scared he won't say it back. She holds her tongue.

"Texas sized." He nods in affirmation sliding his hands down to a more secure position, idling them on her ass. He gives a slight squeeze and cocks an eyebrow at her.

"Are you going to make it to the bedroom, cowboy?"

"Doubtful." He sighs in frustration. "Table?"

"Never done the dirty on a table before."

There is a devilish smirk that flourishes across Jordan's face. It's full of desire and something almost sly hidden within the depths of the faint, momentary expression. "There's a first time for everything, darlin'."

"I'm sorry couldn't hear ya. Is that some table-top rabble-rousing consent right there?" He says in the thickest southern accent he can manage.

Sloane's smile returns. "Ride me like a cowboy, cowboy." She commands her voice teeming with a pronounced sense of lust.

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I left it hanging for added suspense. ;) I plan to write more of this couple on AO3 as soon as my account will let me log in!

Thanks for reading!


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